


Painful Truth

by TanteTao



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: After the Uprising, Branding, Gen, Nudity, TW: Injury to hands, Thumbscrew, Torture, Waterboarding, Whipping, foot whipping, forced confession, only hurt no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 11:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12863172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanteTao/pseuds/TanteTao
Summary: They had used healing runes on him again. Not out of sympathy or the desire to alleviate his pain. They couldn't have cared any less about his pain. All they cared about was that he'd survive until their next visit. So they made sure to draw healing runes on the worst of his injuries, just barely strong enough to ensure he did not die from any of them. Then they left him in his cell, alone with his thoughts and fears and the ever-present cold his threadbare blanket was little use against. He hadn't seen his clothes since the Uprising.





	Painful Truth

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks go to [AlterEgon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlterEgon/pseuds/AlterEgon) for tireless cheerleading throughout the writing process, beta-reading of the story, and procuring a second beta-reader.
> 
> I'd also like to thank J.C. for beta-reading this story and providing me with the title I just couldn't come up with.

They were dragging him out of the Hall of Accords by his arms, ignoring his screams of pain – blinding pain, radiating from his shoulder wound, stabbing through him every time they jarred his arm, and a duller pain in his knees and feet from being dragged over the floor. Try as he might, he just couldn't get his feet under him to walk between his captors instead of hanging from their relentless grip. In between screams he was begging for mercy, for them to put him down, to just leave him there to die, but they didn't even seem to listen to him.

By the time they let him drop to the ground he had lost track of time and had no idea where exactly they were. The floor was stone, cold and hard. His throat felt raw from screaming and his shoulder was in agony. The pounding in his head had gotten worse and his vision blurred. He wanted to get up, see where he was, what was going on, but all he could do was lie there and wait.

"Are you sure this one's still alive? He looks half-dead to me." The voice – female, he thought – was as cold and hard as the stone floor. Strong fingers gripped his hair and raised his head so cool gray eyes could study his face. "That's the Starkweather boy. Get him out of those filthy rags, heal anything life-threatening and put him in a cell. I'll speak to him later."

*

Later, when the door to the small cell clanged shut behind his captors, Hodge had tried to make sense of the events of that day. The battle – which they quite obviously had lost – , his injuries, his capture, his treatment in the last hour or so. They'd simply dragged him to another room and cut his clothes off his body, then proceeded to roughly scrub the blood and dirt from his skin to check for injuries. His feeble attempts to fend them off – they had no business touching him, and they were making the pain even worse – had gotten him a slap in the face and the threat of getting tied up so they could finish their job. So he'd stopped fighting.

Apparently, only his shoulder wound was deemed a risk to his life and thus treated to a scrawled healing rune. They'd left him all his other injuries and pains. They also hadn't considered it necessary to provide him with any sort of clothing when they'd tossed him into a cell that was clearly underground and heavily runed against any breakout attempts. So he wrapped himself in the thin, worn blanket and tried not to think about how many others had been in this cell before him and had probably had that same blanket. Or about what happened to them.

*

He curled himself into a ball. Night had fallen and the temperature in the cell had dropped by several degrees. The thin blanket didn't really help much in keeping him warm. Nonetheless, he drew it more tightly around himself, willing to do whatever might help him retain his body heat. He wasn't sure what lay in his future. The woman had said she was going to talk to him 'later', but nobody had been by since they'd tossed him in here. He'd found a bucket in the corner where he could relieve himself, but no sink, or tap, or even just a jug of water. By now, his throat was dry, his lips were parched and his tongue was virtually sticking to the roof of his mouth. His stomach was rumbling with equal parts hunger and anxiety.

The worst part was actually not knowing. Not knowing what would happen to him. Not knowing what had happened to the other Circle members. Not knowing who was still alive. Not knowing what had happened to _Valentine_. Had he been killed in the Hall of Accords, died fighting alongside their brothers and sisters, fighting for a noble cause? Or had they dragged him into a cell like this one as well? He didn't dare cry out for him, trying to get a response. Valentine trusted him, had called him his most trusted soldier even. He wouldn't approve of a soldier screaming like a frightened child in the dark. So Hodge could only wait.

*

Sunlight was pouring through the small barred window set high in the wall of Hodge's cell when the door was opened again. He barely had time to recognize the two shadowhunters from last night before they hauled him up from his cot and out of the cell. The blanket slipped to the floor and the men didn't give him any chance to pick it up again. But today, he at least managed to stumble along, down long hallways and up a flight of stairs. They didn't encounter anybody on their way, and the place didn't look familiar at all.

His guards dragged him through an open door into a room that made his stomach drop. In the center of the room there was a sturdy wooden chair with leather restraints fixed to its arms, legs and back. The walls sported an assortment of metal tools the use of which he didn't know and most definitely didn't want to find out about, as well as several pairs of iron manacles and some chains. There also were metal hooks in some spots in the wall and ceiling. A large wooden trunk and an impressive desk made of the same wood completed the setup. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged woman with very pale blond hair and gray eyes. It was the same woman who had sent him to that cell the night before.

She gave him a cool, measuring look that made him acutely aware that there wasn't a stitch of clothing on his body. He tried to hunch in on himself, hide at least the most private parts of his body, but his guards just gave him a shake and wrenched his arms behind his back until he couldn't move anymore without causing himself pain. He was panting from his efforts, but she hadn't moved a muscle during his struggle. Now she gestured towards the chair. "Secure him."

The guards didn't hesitate at all and pushed him forcefully down on the chair. His behind and back hit the wood hard and started to throb but it was obvious that the men didn't care. They were busy fastening the restraints: around his ankles, his wrists, right above his elbows and over his chest and upper arms. When they were done, he barely had enough room to breathe. Moving was out of the question, except maybe for some ineffective wriggling. He felt panic starting to rise in his chest. What were they going to do to him that they needed to tie him down for?

The woman was leafing through some papers as if looking for something. When she looked up at him, her hard gaze made him even more uncomfortable. It was difficult not to squirm with those cold eyes boring into him. "You are Hodge Starkweather, 19 years old, member of the group of traitors also known as 'The Circle'."

He flushed, outraged. "We are no traitors. The Clave is corrupt-"

He didn't get any further as one of the guards backhanded him hard enough that he could taste blood. "You will address Inquisitor Herondale with respect, boy, and never without being prompted to."

Hodge licked his split lip and swallowed. His voice had come out scratchy and hoarse and his dry throat was aching.

The woman – the Inquisitor – hadn't flinched. Not at his exclamation, not at the guard's reaction. She'd just waited for everyone to settle again. "You committed treason against the Clave, boy. There is no telling who killed whom exactly, but you fought against your brothers and sisters, and your blade was bloody so you will be held accountable for all those who died that day, as will the other traitors."

He could feel the blood drain from his face. If they were going to punish him for every single death in the Hall of Accords…

"If you answer my questions truthfully, you may receive a more… lenient… punishment."

May, not will. So, she was giving no guarantees.

"Some of Valentine's followers have escaped capture. They are being hunted as we speak. Emil and Anson Pangborn, Charles Freeman, Jeremy Pontmercy, Samuel Blackwell. Where are they hiding?"

Hodge had no idea where those men might have run to. He could have speculated, based on what he knew about his fellow Circle members. But he had sworn an oath to Valentine, the same oath he had helped write.

_I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles... I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged._

He wasn't going to break that oath, wasn't going to turn traitor to the just cause. So he clenched his teeth and raised his head a fraction in defiance. She wouldn't get _anything_ from him. He would not disappoint Valentine!

He expected her to get angry, yell at him, maybe order his guards to hit him again. Instead, she favored him with a thin smile that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "The boy must be thirsty. Maybe some water will loosen his tongue."

Both his guards nodded at the Inquisitor and left the room.

Hodge didn't know what to think. Was she going to reward his silence with a drink? Somehow, that didn't sound right. She hadn't given a damn about his needs and wishes so far. Why start now? Was that a new strategy to get him to talk? Was she going to tell them to untie him and to bring him some nice clothes next?

When the guards came back, his confusion only grew. They were carrying what looked like a towel and four large buckets of water. What were they planning to do with those? He would have been quite content with just a glass or two of something drinkable. But nobody seemed interested in explaining anything to him. The guards just shot a questioning look towards the Inquisitor and, at receiving a nod from her, stepped to stand behind his chair, out of his field of vision. He tensed in apprehension.

The next moment, the towel was thrown onto his face from behind and his head was tugged back over the back of the chair by the ends of the towel until his neck muscles screamed with the tension. His attempts at protesting against this treatment only yielded unintelligible muffled noises. Then, he heard a splashing sound and the fabric on his face turned wet and cold.

He welcomed the first droplets of water, sucking them into his mouth eagerly, until he realized that he couldn't breathe.

That was when he started struggling. He fought against his restraints, flexing his muscles and trying to wriggle out of the leather bonds. He thrashed his head from side to side to get out from underneath the fabric. To no avail.

Hodge was starting to see dark spots when the towel was suddenly removed from his face. Immediately, he gulped in as much air as he could. Then, the towel was thrown back over his face and the torment continued.

Even though he knew, rationally, that he stood no chance against the leather restraints _and_ the two guards, he couldn't help himself. He _had_ to fight them, had to struggle for another breath of air, for survival. When they let up this time, he was coughing and sputtering and had trouble breathing.

Hodge expected the towel to be back any second, but he remained free to breathe. When he finally managed to calm his breathing somewhat and look up, he caught the Inquisitor eyeing him in a calculating way. "Well, are you going to answer my question now, boy? Where are those Circle members? Where are they hiding?"

He just stared at her. He would not betray Valentine. She couldn't make him do it.

The Inquisitor sighed, then nodded at his guards. The next second, the towel was back.

The pattern stayed the same: they'd almost suffocate him under the towel two, maybe three times, then the Inquisitor would ask her question again and he'd refuse to answer. They'd begin anew. There were short reprieves whenever the guards needed to fetch more water, but they never took long and the knowledge of what would happen upon their return kept him from truly relaxing.

In the end, he lost count of how often he'd come up, struggling for breath, heart pumping like crazy in his panic. The back of his neck felt like it was one solid black and purple bruise where it was bent over the chair, his lungs burned with the effort of sucking in oxygen while practically being drowned, his arms and chest were bloody where he'd struggled against the restraints until they'd cut into his skin. He was shivering uncontrollably and felt incredibly weak. But he hadn't caved, hadn't answered.

The Inquisitor seemed completely unfazed. "Well, I'm afraid we're going to have to continue this little talk another time. I have an appointment."

Hodge wanted to throw some insolent answer into her face, but he couldn't get his body to cooperate. He could only watch and listen.

"Take him back to his cell."

And they did. They freed him from the chair, grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back to his cell where they just tossed him through the open door, then shut and locked the door behind him.

He had no strength left to brace himself and he hit the floor hard. Since he couldn't get up, he had to crawl over to his cot, picking up the blanket on the way. He was cold, and his body felt like bruised all over. Once he'd managed to climb awkwardly onto the cot and curl up under the blanket, he realized that his face was wet with tears. Tears of pain, of loneliness, of helplessness, of frustration, of rage. He didn't know. He wiped them away, but they just kept coming.

*

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes, it was dark. His stomach was aching with hunger, his throat was dry and scratchy, and his lips were so parched he was afraid they were going to start bleeding soon. Despite the blanket he had drawn tightly around himself, he was shivering in the cold night air. There was enough moonlight filtering in through the small window for him to see that nobody had thought to bring him something to eat or drink while he slept.

Were they going to starve him down here? He had known, of course, that Valentine was right, that the Clave was corrupt and needed to change, needed to place the well-being of shadowhunters first again. He had worked with Valentine and the other Circle members towards a new, better version of the Clave. But he never would have thought they'd sink so low as to just let a fellow shadowhunter die of dehydration or starvation without even giving them a trial. With those thoughts whirling through his mind, he fell asleep again.

*

The door to the cell was pushed open so forcefully that it hit the wall with a loud clang.

Hodge woke with a start and almost tumbled off the narrow cot. He was given no time to wake up properly and take in his surroundings beyond the fact that pale morning light had replaced the dark of night.

The same two shadowhunters as before grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of his cell, leaving the blanket a crumpled heap on the floor.

Hodge stumbled along between them, to the room he recognized from the day before. The Inquisitor was already there.

He felt her cold gray eyes sweep over his exposed body, top to bottom and back again. "Tie him up, then give him some sustenance. I'd don't want him to faint halfway through questioning."

Hodge assumed they'd put him in the chair again, but his guards dragged him to an open spot in the room. Then they tightened manacles around his wrists and secured the attached chains to two hooks in the ceiling, leaving him standing there with his arms widespread and immobile. Next, he heard someone open and close what he assumed was the big wooden trunk somewhere behind him. He flinched as leather cuffs were put around his ankles. The bar between the cuffs went through a metal ring in the floor that he hadn't seen during his first visit and kept his feet a shoulder-width apart.

One of his guards drew his stele and activated Hodge's Nourishment rune.

The absence of hunger and thirst was heavenly, but he reminded himself that it hadn't been done out of kindness but in preparation for more 'questioning'. Just the thought made him shudder inwardly. But he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't let the Clave win. His loyalty was to Valentine and the Circle, not to those people who treated filthy Downworlders better than their own kind!

Inquisitor Herondale had seated herself behind the desk again and was looking at some documents before shifting her gaze to Hodge. "So, let's see if you are more cooperative today. The fugitives haven't been caught yet. Emil Pangborn. Anson Pangborn. Charles Freeman. Jeremy Pontmercy. Samuel Blackwell. You will tell me where they are or how we can find them."

Hodge couldn't have told her their destinations even if he had wanted to. Circle members didn't exactly make escape plans together. He'd thought they were in it to the end. Fighting together until they had defeated the Clave or died trying. Or been captured, he guessed. He might have some vague memories of places the others had spoken about, places they liked, places they'd been to in the past. But there was no guarantee any of the fled Circle members would use those places.

When he stayed silent, the Inquisitor motioned to the guard to his left. "It seems he needs some persuasion. Try not to bloody him, we don't want a mess."

Hodge swallowed, but the guard just nodded and left his field of vision. The trunk was opened and closed again and the man returned with what looked somewhat like a strange riding crop: the hilt wouldn't have been out of place for a short sword, but instead of a blade it held roughly three feet of strangely stiff leather about as wide as a man's thumb. Hodge really didn't like the glint in the guard's eyes.

The guard moved to stand behind him and to his left.

Hodge heard a swishing sound, and then fire bloomed in his right shoulder and made him clench his jaw to hold back a sound made up to equal parts of surprise and pain. His brain had barely worked its way to the fact that today's torture was apparently going to be whipping when the second blow landed maybe an inch below the first. He tried to flinch away from the pain, but they'd tied him up too well. The third blow hit muscles already tensed in anticipation and hurt even more. By the fifth blow, Hodge was sweating and the Inquisitor signaled a stop.

"Well, have you reconsidered? Where are the fugitives? Are they still in Idris or are they trying to hide in the mundane world?"

Hodge pressed his lips together and stubbornly held her gaze. He would not betray Valentine.

Inquisitor Herondale gestured to his guard and five more lashes followed, this time from his left shoulder downwards. The upper part of his back was on fire and he was fighting so hard not to scream that his jaw was beginning to hurt.

She repeated her questions, he continued his silence, and five more lashes to his right side followed, from where they'd stopped the first time down to his hips.

Hodge was squirming futilely in his chains by now. He knew, he couldn't get away, but he couldn't stop his body from trying. It hurt so much! But he would not, could not give in.

The whipping continued in batches of five: down his back and his legs to just above his knees. When the lash hit the sensitive skin of his ass, he screamed for the first time and was mortified by his lack of control. They didn't deserve to see how much pain they were causing.

By the time they decided to start over on his front and worked their way from his chest, to his stomach, to his thighs, he'd given up any thought of not showing his pain, of dignity and decorum and was just desperately clinging to his resolve not to give in, not to babble out everything and anything he knew. He had lost control of his bowels and soiled himself sometime during the whipping of his lower stomach, and he couldn't stop the cries, wails, sobs, moans, and whimpers emerging from his throat, but at least he could refuse the Inquisitor that which she wanted the most: answers.

When the front and back of his body were covered in angry red welts from shoulders to knees and the chains were all that kept him upright, the whipping stopped. Hodge didn't have the energy to look up, but the Inquisitor must have communicated her wishes to the guards because he was slowly untied and dragged to another room.

There, they poured cold water over him. Dimly, he noticed that the water going down the drain sometimes had reddish streaks which must mean that they had broken his skin in some places.

Once the guards deemed him clean enough, they hauled him, dripping wet and aching badly, into his cell and deposited him unceremoniously on his cot. He didn't even have enough strength left to grab the blanket off the floor.

*

He'd made several attempts to get his hands on the blanket but it was just too painful. In the end, he'd curled up as much as his hurting body would allow and tried to will all pain and all thoughts away. He just wanted to _not_ be here. The opening door made him flinch. No, they couldn't be back already, they'd only stopped torturing him a short while ago. They couldn't mean to start up again already, could they? How was he going to get through it again when the pain was still so fresh and all-consuming?

But nobody dragged him off the cot. Instead, more tentative steps approached him.

"Hodge?" The voice, that well-known voice, made his head whip up in disbelief. "V-Valentine?" Hodge's voice was barely above a croak after all the screaming he had done recently.

"Hodge! By the Angel, what have those animals done to you!?" His idol's outrage on his behalf almost felt like a caress. Here there was finally someone who cared about him and his well-being, and although Hodge was ashamed that Valentine Morgenstern had to see him in this pitiful state, he inwardly thanked all the angels whose names he could remember that his leader had found him.

"How did you get down here? How did you manage to bypass the guards?" A traitorous little voice in the back of his head wanted to ask _Why did it take you so long?_ but he quickly stomped down on it. There was no doubt that Valentine had come to his rescue as quickly as humanly possible.

"I will explain it to you later, Hodge, but we don't have time right now. We need to get you out of here and to safety. Can you walk?"

Hodge swallowed, then shook his head in the negative. "Not without assistance, I'm afraid."

He flinched and inhaled sharply when Valentine helped him up, supporting his weight with his much larger frame.

They were lucky the Circle's leader was such a strong man because Hodge was barely able to move his feet and mostly had to concentrate on not giving voice to the agony he was in from every small movement, every touch. Every sound, every moving shadow had him panicking, afraid that the guards were coming back, that they'd be caught and Valentine would be dragged into a cell next to his and tortured as well. Just because he wouldn't leave any of his men behind.

By the time they reached the door leading to freedom, Hodge was sweating and shivering, his eyes huge and scared and flickering from side to side, looking for a trap, for someone lying in wait for them. He didn't dare believe he was getting out of captivity. But Valentine cautiously opened the door and helped him through and he was smelling fresh air and looking up at the stars in the sky. It was beautiful. He didn't recognize his surroundings, but he didn't care. He was free!

"Wait here for a moment. I'll check if the path is safe." Valentine murmured and helped him lean against the wall, then vanished into the shadows.

Hodge waited, still enjoying the feeling of the sky above him and greenery around him. Valentine had said he would take him to safety, which probably meant leaving Idris for now. But he didn't care. He'd rather be free in the mundane world for now, until they could regroup and make new plans. When he heard a sound on his other side, he whipped around, forgetting about his injuries, lost his balance, fell…

… and hit the stone floor hard. The pain made him gasp. His head felt dizzy and it took him some time to realize that he was back in his cold cell, that it had all been a dream and falling from his cot had woken him up. Valentine wasn't here, there was no rescue and he was stuck here, waiting for the guards to show up again and drag him off to the torture room. Nobody was going to help him.

The tears came unbidden and were unstoppable. In the end, he had to bite down on his own fist to stop sobs of desperation from escaping.

*

He woke up to the first rays of sunlight chasing away the night's darkness in his cell. Wiping away the traces of his tears, he tried to uncurl his body enough to get to the blanket, only to realize that the welts on his body didn't hurt any less today. Right now he was kind of grateful that his guards had activated his Nourishment rune yesterday instead of actually offering him food and water. It meant he at least didn't need to figure out a way to get his aching body over to the bucket in the corner and back to the cot.

Time passed slowly, and Hodge longed for a book to read or someone to talk to. He wasn't exhausted enough anymore to be able to sleep despite the pain in his body, but that pain made it impossible for him to move around, let alone exercise. He was stuck on the narrow cot, curled up against the cool air, trying not to move a muscle. With nothing else to do, he spent the next few hours trying to clear his mind, to let it wander out of his cell. He tried focusing on happy memories, beautiful landscapes, anything to take his mind away from this place for a short time. But he couldn't ignore the pain and thus was continually reminded of where he really was.

*

The clang of the door hitting the wall brought an end to his attempts at mental escape. The guards were back. One of them had his stele out and proceeded to activate Hodge's Nourishment rune. For a moment, no more than the blink of an eye, the young man hoped that that was all they had come for. That they would leave again. Then they dragged him to his feet and up to the torture room, paying no heed to his feeble struggles and moans of pain.

Today, a small side table of the same height as the chair's armrests had been added to the room. Otherwise it looked the same. The Inquisitor was already seated behind the desk, as usual. Hodge couldn't suppress the yelp of pain when the guards pushed him down harshly into the chair and the wooden seat and back came in contact with his welts, skyrocketing the pain there. By the time the pain ebbed to the level it had been at before, the guards had already put the same restraints on him as the first time.

The Inquisitor's gray eyes were fixed to his injuries, then slowly moved up to his face. "So, boy, let's see whether you are more cooperative today. We are still looking for Emil and Anson Pangborn, Charles Freeman, Jeremy Pontmercy, and Samuel Blackwell. What do you know of their whereabouts?"

Hodge just stared back silently.

When she signaled to his guards, he expected them to go for water and a towel again. Instead he heard the trunk being opened and closed. When the guard returned, he was holding a device made of some dark metal. The Inquisitor seemed to be gaging his reaction when she said: "This is a thumbscrew. Of course, its use isn't limited to thumbs."

Hodge could feel himself blanch and start to shake. They were going to use a thumbscrew on him?

At Inquisitor Herondale's gesture, the guard didn't hesitate to put the device on Hodge's right thumb. The man then proceeded to slowly tighten the screw. Hodge could feel pressure on his thumb. At first, he just felt the two strips of metal. Then it turned uncomfortable and his body tried in vain to escape the contraption. Uncomfortable morphed into painful and he had to clench his jaw to remain silent. When pain gave way to agony, he couldn't stop the scream anymore. And still, the guard kept stoically and slowly tightening the screw. Hodge's scream rose in pitch. When the bone finally succumbed to the thumbscrew's pressure, Hodge's vision went black for a moment. Maybe that's what people meant when they spoke of 'blinding pain'.

"Now, this is just the beginning, boy. You have nine more fingers and ten healthy toes we can use. Unless you'd like to answer my questions now?"

Hodge was breathing heavily but otherwise remained silent.

At the Inquisitor's nod, his guard slowly unscrewed the thumbscrew and slid it off his thumb. The pain was excruciating, and Hodge screamed again. When the guard gripped the broken bone between two fingers and squeezed, Hodge's wail echoed from the walls and he almost passed out from the pain.

"Such a loyal follower. Why do you insist on causing yourself so much pain? The others we caught have confessed by now to lessen their sentence. And Valentine? Your great leader? He fled the Hall of Accords, slaughtered his own family and killed himself rather than face justice. He just left all his followers, his so-called friends, to rot in prison. He didn't care."

The Inquisitor's words were like a mixture of slaps in the face and buckets of ice water poured over him. Maybe some of his brothers and sisters in the Circle hadn't been true believers and thus had decided to confess to some crime in hopes of more lenient punishment. But Valentine would never have fled the battlefield. Much less killed his family. It was a lie, it had to be a lie. It just wasn't possible. Valentine was no coward. And he _loved_ his family, his wife and son. The Inquisitor was just trying to trick him into answering her questions.

The guard tugged on his broken thumb and Hodge found himself screaming and writhing in his restraints again. Through the haze of pain he heard the Inquisitor say "We can continue this all day, boy. Is a dead coward really worth this much pain?" Then the world went black.

A splash of ice-cold water hitting his face woke him up again. He was gasping for air, his head thrashing from side to side. Not this again, not the water! Hodge struggled, his muscles flexed and the restraints dug deeply into his skin. It took him some time to realize that there hadn't been more than a few handfuls of water and that he could still breathe unhindered. It wasn't until then that he noticed the agony his right thumb was in.

The Inquisitor was still smiling at him completely unfazed. "You're back with us. Good. What do you know about the whereabouts of those fugitives?"

When even prolonged manipulation of the broken thumb didn't make him talk, and after they'd woken him up with cold water three more times, each time sending him into panic for several moments with his heartbeat thundering in his ears and every hastily gulped lungful of air burning in his chest, the guard shot a questioning look at the Inquisitor and slipped the thumbscrew onto Hodge's right forefinger.

This time the young man knew what to expect, which made it even harder to bear in a way. He knew at every step how much more painful it could and would become. Single screams had turned into a drawn-out wail, and Hodge barely heard the exact words the Inquisitor used to ask her questions or badmouth Valentine.

Hodge had no idea how long the torture lasted, but in the end all fingers of his right hand had been broken once and his voice had left him so he could only scream and sob without sound. He had lost count of the times they'd needed to empty a bucket of cold water over him to rouse him from unconsciousness. The last few times he'd even lacked the strength to struggle against the leather straps whenever he felt the water touch his face, afraid for a moment they'd brought the towel back. He barely registered his restraints being undone or the guards dragging him back to his cell.

*

When he woke up, his first glance went to his right hand, expecting to see his mangled fingers and feel the terrible pain. But his hand looked fine and didn't hurt at all. For a moment, he was inclined to believe that the whole torture with the thumbscrew had been a very vivid nightmare. But then his eyes fell on the bruises on his wrists: right where the restraints had been. There were more bruises, above his elbows, on his chest and upper arms.

So, it hadn't been a nightmare. Someone had applied healing runes to his hand. It was the only explanation. Did they want to avoid doing permanent damage? Or were they just making sure they could start in on his right hand again tomorrow? He didn't understand his captors. On the one hand, they seemed quite willing to cause him immense pain in their pursuit of knowledge about the fugitives. On the other hand, they'd avoided causing him irreversible damage. Why? They'd made it quite clear what they thought of him…

Plus, they had an easier way to get the truth out of him. Well, easier for them. They could offer him trial by the Soul Sword. That way, he would have to answer all their questions truthfully or suffer steadily increasing pain until he did. Refusing to let the Soul Sword judge him would condemn him as a liar. So, why hadn't they called in the Silent Brothers? Not that he was complaining, not really. The Silent Brothers had always creeped him out for as long as he could remember. And there were secrets he really, _really_ didn't want them or the Inquisitor or both to discover. Especially this Inquisitor. For example the one about what had happened to Céline Herondale. And her baby. They would sentence him to death if they knew.

So, he knew his own reasons for not asking for a trial by Soul Sword. But that didn't explain why the Inquisitor hadn't asked for it either. After all, with every passing day, the fugitives she wanted information about were getting farther and farther away…

*

The sun had already begun to set when the door to Hodge's cell was opened. He'd actually started entertaining hopes of no torture for the day when he'd remained undisturbed past midday. The two familiar shadowhunters entering his cell destroyed those hopes immediately as they hauled him to his feet and marched him to the torture room. They stopped once on the way to activate his Nourishment rune, as if they'd almost forgotten about it. They probably had.

There was a new addition to the room today. It looked like an upside-down bench with two of its legs missing. The straps fixed to the remaining two legs and the bench itself looked anything but reassuring to Hodge. What was this new contraption? He had a feeling he would find out sooner rather than later.

The Inquisitor was standing behind the desk, reading some document. She didn't look up until the guards had maneuvered him directly in front of the desk. "I see you've recovered from our last meeting." She sat down, gesturing to a stack of documents in front of her. "Since you are so very reluctant to talk about your co-conspirators, we'll stick to discussing _your_ _crimes_ today. The other traitors were very forthcoming about those."

His crimes? Was she bluffing? What could the other Circle members have told her about his crimes? Why would they tell her anything? Were they not loyal to Valentine and the cause? She had to be bluffing.

"Would you like to make it easier on yourself and just confess? No?"

He just stared blankly ahead. If she thought she'd get more out of him today than the days before, she was sorely mistaken.

"I have signed witness statements here saying that you actively helped Valentine Morgenstern recruit new members for his group of traitors. You wrote the oath of that group, breaking your loyalty to your brothers and sisters in the Clave. You helped Valentine Morgenstern hunt down Downworlders. I have witnesses describing how you tortured innocent Downworlders for information. Should I read the explicit descriptions out to you? And I have sworn statements that you were instrumental in the raid on the New York werewolf pack and the killing of the shadowhunters from the New York Institute, among them Marian and Adam Whitelaw and their niece Rachel."

Hodge felt suddenly cold. He hadn't done _all_ of that. _He_ would have been the wrong person to recruit anyone, as he'd been pretty much friendless and an outcast before Valentine included him into his group of friends. He'd helped write the oath, yes. Because he believed in their goal: protecting shadowhunters, putting their needs and their safety first again. And yes, he'd been part of hunts, but only if the Downworlders had broken the Law. He most certainly never tortured anyone, Downworlder or not, innocent or not. And he had not participated in the New York raid. He'd helped with the planning but hadn't actually been there. So there could be no sworn statements that said otherwise. Unless… _unless one or more of his fellow Circle members lied under oath._

Apparently Inquisitor Herondale took his shocked silence for defiance because she nodded at his guards. The next thing Hodge knew, they had kicked his legs out from under him and were pushing him down onto the bench on his front with his calf against the wooden legs and the soles of his feet pointing at the ceiling. One guard held him in place while the other fastened the restraints.

"You know, you will confess to all of your crimes sooner or later and get your just punishment. How much pain you cause yourself between now and then is completely up to you."

How much pain he caused _himself_? He wasn't causing anything here! He wanted to scream at her, ask her when she'd last had contact with reality. But he restrained himself in the knowledge that the guards would just punish him for not respecting the Inquisitor or some similar nonsense. These 'questionings' were bad enough without him making it even worse.

"Did you know that the feet are one of the most sensitive areas of the human body, boy?"

He saw the tip of what looked like a bamboo rod pass by his head when one of the guards walked past him. Then he heard a swishing noise and agony bloomed in the soles of his feet. It was centered in the middle, the soft part, but it radiated out and up his legs. He couldn't contain his scream. Four more blows followed, and each one made him cry out in pain.

"Are you ready to dictate your confession? Ready to face the consequences of your actions?"

He clenched his jaw and remained silent. He hadn't done what she was accusing him of!

The blows rained down on his feet again. With each hit the pain radiated further throughout his body. Single screams turned into a continuous wail.

He couldn't count the times the Inquisitor signaled a stop and offered to write down his confession, only to order the torture to continue when he didn't answer. By the fifteenth blow he couldn't have answered even if he'd wanted to. He was too busy screaming his throat raw from the pain. His feet were on fire, his body was hurting all over, he was drenched in sweat and soon tears were running down his face unchecked.

Hodge had no voice left and was barely conscious by the time the guards unfastened his restraints, hauled him up and dragged him down to his cell. They just dumped him on his cot. "See you tomorrow, traitor!" one of them sneered.

*

They hadn't healed his feet. It was the first thing Hodge noticed when he came to again. His broken fingers had warranted a healing rune or two, but apparently throbbing feet that felt as if they were on fire weren't worth that kind of effort. With the welts across his back and front still making any kind of moving quite painful he was quickly running out of positions to stay in without wanting to scream.

His mind kept replaying the accusations again and again. The Inquisitor had seemed so very satisfied and smug when she told him about the sworn witness statements. Was she really that good an actress? But on the other hand, why would any of his fellow Circle members accuse him of deeds he hadn't done? They were all sworn to the same cause! And they hadn't killed innocent Downworlders. Only those who had broken the Law! There had been more than enough of those to keep them quite busy.

Those statements just had to have been made up by the Inquisitor. It was the only explanation. The documents were written by someone in the Clave, someone who wanted to paint them as traitors to the Nephilim when in truth they were their most ardent protectors. That had to be it.

*

Hodge never knew in advance when the guards would show up, but otherwise it seemed there was a routine now: They'd show up once a day – no more often, no less – haul him up from his cot, activate his Nourishment rune and drag him off to the torture room. By now he didn't consider the activating of the rune a kindness. Yes, it meant he didn't need to find a way to crawl over to the bucket in the corner, and it also saved him the embarrassment of losing control of his bowels when the pain became too much. But it also meant that he had no way of ending the pain. There were no weapons in his cell, nothing to cause himself enough damage with to die from, so refusing nutrition would have been his only way out. And they had taken it from him.

The bench was gone from the room again, replaced by a brazier full of red-hot coals. Someone had also placed several rods of what looked like iron against the desk. Hodge shuddered. This setup didn't bode well for him. His guards didn't steer him to the chair but to the open space where he'd been chained up before.

He started to struggle, afraid of what they were going to do to him again, and got a punch to the jaw and a kick to the backs of his knees in turn. His legs buckled and his head rang, and they were already putting the manacles on him and pulling him up on his feet. Considering the beating he had taken there yesterday, they were tender enough still to make him gasp. But the guards didn't care, didn't even hesitate to secure his ankles to the bar, immobilizing him.

"Haven't you realized by now that fighting is futile, boy?" Hodge hadn't even seen the Inquisitor behind her desk, so frightened had he been by the sight of the brazier. "You could spare yourself so much pain by finally admitting your crimes."

But he hadn't committed crimes. He had been trying to save the Nephilim. They needed more shadowhunters, stricter laws concerning Downworlders. The Clave just didn't want to see the truth! Instead, they were making up crimes the Circle members were supposed to have committed. Hodge refused to play into their hands.

The Inquisitor sighed. "So, you do need some more motivation it seems. We can provide that." At those words, one of the guards grabbed an iron rod and held the tip into the hot coals. Hodge watched wide-eyed as the iron started to change color, to red, then to orange, brighter orange. They weren't really going to use that on him, were they? They couldn't!

But they could, and they did. The guard lifted the rod from the brazier and brought the tip down on Hodge's upper arm. Hodge screamed, but the man didn't stop. He dragged the hot iron along Hodge's arm, ripping off the skin that stuck to the hot metal, undeterred by the pained wail rising in pitch.

When the iron was finally removed and placed back on the coals, Hodge sagged in his chains. The smell of roasted meat rising from his arm combined with the pain made him gag. If there had been anything in his stomach, he would have brought it up, but he hadn't consumed any food or drink in days. That didn't save him from dry-retching though.

Once he had calmed down, the Inquisitor marched up to him and grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. "We have sworn witness statement concerning your crimes. You will be found guilty. And the sentences are much harsher for unrepentant criminals. Why do you choose to suffer so much? For your 'friends'? _Who_ do you think gave us those statements? For Valentine? Valentine Morgenstern is a coward. When he realized that his rebellion was doomed to failure, he fled the Hall of Accords, ran to his home and burned it down. While his parents-in-law, his wife and his son were still in there with him, and with the Mortal Cup he had stolen from the Hall of Accords. He _murdered_ his family and destroyed the Cup. And you _still_ follow him." She stepped back, breathing hard.

Hodge's mind was reeling. _Lies, all lies._ It had to be lies. Valentine would never do that. He would never kill his own family. _Jocelyn._ She'd always been nice to him. He'd liked her. Not just because she was married to Valentine. And little Jonathan? Valentine couldn’t have killed his own son. And what she'd said about the Cup was ridiculous. Valentine had wanted to use the Cup to create more shadowhunters, to increase their numbers and raise their chances of winning against demons. He would _never_ destroy the Cup. She had to be lying. She just had to.

But doubt was starting to creep in. Valentine had been driven and more ruthless than ever since his father's death. He'd ranted against Downworlders. The raids had increased in number, although he'd always presented them with proof that their prey had broken the Law. He had become more fixated on getting the Cup and on making sure the Accords weren't signed. He wanted that war between Downworlders and Nephilim. Could he actually have been ruthless enough to do what she said he'd done?

No, it couldn't be. It was unthinkable. She was trying to trick him, trying to mess with his head. That was all. He firmed his resolve and glared at her, refusing to speak.

The Inquisitor shook her head as if disappointed and went to sit behind her desk again.

The guard took the hot iron rod from the brazier and touched it to his other arm, dragging it across the skin. The pain was excruciating and the smell no less nauseating than before. Tears were streaming down Hodge's face and he was gagging again by the time the rod was removed.

"Do you really want to stay loyal to the man who may have _doomed_ us all? Do you have any idea how many Nephilim died in the Uprising? And Valentine Morgenstern went and destroyed the only means of raising our numbers again quickly. Even if every fertile female Nephilim set to baby-making right away – which would take them off active duty for some time with nobody to replace them – it would take almost two decades for those babies to grow into adult shadowhunters. Who will take over the dead's duties until then? How can you still believe he was _right_?"

 _Sheislyingsheislyingsheislying._ But she sounded so sincere. So seriously devastated. Was she that good at faking it? Just to get him to talk? Wasn't that a bit much effort for one young shadowhunter? But Valentine had taken him in when nobody else wanted anything to do with him. Only through him had he met others who shared his opinions. Well, Valentine's opinions. But still, all those Nephilim from old, rich families had turned up their noses at the thought of spending time with lowly little him. All but Valentine. He couldn't betray _him_.

The torture went on, burns being added to his torso. He fainted when the hot iron was dragged across his nipple, but they quickly brought him back to consciousness with a bucket of cold water. Hodge desperately wished they'd use something else to bring him back around. After that first visit to the torture room where they'd half-drowned him so often, every contact of water to his face brought back the panic and helplessness he'd felt then. At one point, the Inquisitor read out the list of casualties to him between two applications of the hot iron. There were so many of them. And most of them were neither Circle nor important Council members. Just ordinary shadowhunters. So many dead. And if it was true, if Valentine actually had destroyed the Mortal Cup, then there really was no way to replace them. _Please don't let it be true!_

The burns were now being placed on his inner thighs, starting right above the knees and moving up. And the Inquisitor had switched to reading out witness statements, complete with the name of the witnesses. All people he knew. But a lot of those situations he hadn't been privy to – if they had ever happened. Some of them turned his stomach. Torturing werewolf children with silver so they'd reveal their parents' whereabouts? Dripping holy water onto an innocent vampire again and again and again until he choked out the hiding place of a clan member who had broken the Law? It went on and on.

When the hot iron was so far up his thigh he could feel the heat uncomfortably well in more private parts of his anatomy and the witness reports reached a detailed account of Circle members slowly dismembering a Warlock who had refused to help them hunt down another, he broke down. His wails were interrupted by sobs and pleas and gagging.

"Stop. Please. Nooooo! Ididnotdothat. Stop. Ihadnopartinthatpleasepleasepleasenomore!" He wasn't even sure what he wanted to stop more: the burning or the talking. Either was more than he could take. His words turned unintelligible as he just kept begging and sobbing and crying until he knew no more.

*

The first thing he noticed when he woke up in his cell was that he was in a lot less pain than he had expected to be. He examined his body and quickly realized that the guards must have used healing runes on the burns. So, burns apparently qualified as life-threatening. Not that he was going to complain! They had left him the welts where they hadn't been intersected by burns. But his feet felt better. Which didn't mean much, considering they were most likely going to come for him again tomorrow. Hodge didn't even want to think about what torture method would be waiting for him then.

His mind was still busy going over all the information the Inquisitor had thrown at him in between the torture. Could those statements be true? Could those terrible things have happened? He knew that he himself hadn't been the one to do them, the way the so-called witnesses claimed, but were all those accounts just fiction? How would they even get the ideas? And why would they perjure themselves by telling they had witnessed such atrocities – and the torture of children could not be called anything else in his book – and done _nothing_? It didn't make any sense.

Unless. Unless those things had actually happened. And the perpetrators preferred the punishment for not helping to the punishment for actually doing the deed. He'd recognized some of the names of the 'guilty' Downworlders whose whereabouts he supposedly had tortured out of innocents. They had been the targets of raids he hadn't actually been part of. But everybody knew that the Starkweathers were a minor family, without political influence, powerful friends, or significant riches. Well, any riches at all. If Valentine really was dead, nobody would speak up for him. Nobody would believe him over a member of the richer, more powerful families. If they said he'd done those things, the Council would most probably believe them. Which meant he was screwed.

*

As expected, the guards came for him again the next day, going through their routine of rousing him from his cot, activating his Nourishment rune and dragging him up to the torture room. Which had changed once again. The brazier was gone, but a pulley system was secured to hooks in the ceiling and equipped with a chain from which two manacles dangled. That was _not_ a hopeful sight. Hodge couldn't help but wonder what was in store for him today.

Inquisitor Herondale was sitting behind the desk, her cool gray eyes resting on him. Hodge felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. By now, he wasn't sure what frightened him more: the torture that no doubt lay in store for him again, or whatever information she would pelt him with in between. He didn't know how many of his fellow Circle members had been captured and who. But he was finding out things about them he hadn't known before and would have preferred to never know.

"Well, boy, you've had some time to think about our talk yesterday. Are you finally ready to confess?" Hodge wouldn't have called what had happened the day before a 'talk' exactly. She'd been doing most of the talking because he had been quite busy screaming and sobbing and retching. An experience he didn't exactly care to repeat. Not that anyone was going to ask him what he wanted. He probably could end the torture by renouncing Valentine and the Circle and confessing to crimes he hadn't committed, but with the list of crimes she'd already read out to him that would have been the equivalent to digging his own grave. Or he could ask for a trial by Soul Sword, but that would only change the reasons for the death sentence. He was well and truly stuck with whatever interrogation method the Inquisitor would come up with next.

"Apparently not. Get him ready." The last was addressed to his guards who immediately dragged him over to the chain. They pushed his hands behind his back and put the manacles on his wrists. Since the chain split into two chains maybe six inches above the manacles, some space remained between his hands. Next, they put shackles on his ankles, tying them close together, and secured what looked like a block of metal to the chain between the shackles. Hodge moved his feet experimentally and realized that the weight was heavy enough to keep him from kicking his captors. He was at their mercy again.

"Do you admit that you helped Valentine Morgenstern create the so-called Circle, recruited for him and wrote the oath new members had to swear?" When Hodge remained silent, she signaled to his guards. They took up the other end of the chain and started to slowly pull. His hands were dragged up behind his back. The first few inches weren't too bad. He was flexible enough for his shoulders to bear the movement smoothly. But they didn't stop when his flexibility reached its limits and he had to bend forward a bit or hurt himself. The guards fixed the chain to a hook in the wall and left him in his somewhat uncomfortable position.

"The loyalty you have for Valentine Morgenstern is amazing, boy. Valentine is a traitor and a murderer! He destroyed the Mortal Cup given to the Nephilim by the angel Raziel himself! He tortured and murdered Downworlders and Nephilim! By the Angel, that monster murdered _his own family_ , his young wife and his small son! And still you think he did the right thing!?" His son? Which one? The one that was his by blood or the one he took in as his own? But Hodge couldn't ask the Inquisitor, nobody but himself and Valentine ever knew there was more than one child. And if only one son died with Valentine… then that meant that one boy was still out there.

Hodge didn't get to think about Valentine's sons any more because the Inquisitor gestured to his guards and they grabbed the chain again. Hodge had to bend further forward to accommodate the shortening chain. He tried to spread his legs and ease the strain but the chain between his ankles was too short for that. By the time they stopped pulling him up, he had to crane his neck to be able to see Inquisitor Herondale.

"Maybe you even helped him escape from the Hall of Accords when you realized the Uprising wasn't going as planned, hm? That would make you responsible for the deaths of Granville Fairchild, Adele Fairchild, née Nightshade, Jocelyn Morgenstern, née Fairchild, and Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!" Hodge couldn't hold back his words this time. "No! I would _never_ do anything to hurt Valentine's family! _Never!_ " His hands were pulled up until he was bent over so far his chest was parallel to the floor. His body was covered in sweat and he was panting. What were they trying to do here, break him in half?

Only when he'd somewhat caught his breath again did he realize that he hadn't spoken out to defend Valentine as he would have done just two days ago. He hadn't claimed that _Valentine_ would never ever hurt his family, that it just wasn't possible. He'd only informed her that _he_ himself would never hurt Valentine's family. So, what did that say about his loyalty? Did he actually believe that his mentor and idol Valentine had killed his parents-in-law, his wife and his son? Apparently, deep down he didn't believe it to be completely impossible anymore.

Inquisitor Herondale didn't leave him much time to dwell on that rather shocking realization, as she started recounting the atrocities committed on raids. Atrocities his fellow Circle members were accusing him of now, to save their own skin. When he didn't respond, the chain was pulled tighter again. He was balancing on the balls of his feet now, bent over, breathing heavily, and his shoulders were starting to hurt.

He was struggling to follow the Inquisitor's next words and questions. She had apparently moved on to the attack on the werewolf pack in New York and the killing of the Whitelaw family stationed at the Institute there. "I didn't do that! I wasn't even _there_! Why don't you ask Robert and Maryse Lightwood what happened in New York?" He clamped his mouth shut again. Where had that come from? Hadn't he decided _not_ to react, _not_ to give in?

"Oh, but I did." It took a moment for Hodge to register the words and the satisfaction evident in the voice. "Where do you think I got the sworn statement that _you_ were the one who planned that raid and that you were personally involved in killing Marian and Adam Whitelaw and their niece Rachel?" _And of course you believe them rather than me._

The guards grabbed the chain again and Hodge tried his best to compensate for the pull on his wrists, but he couldn't move far enough. His arms were pulled up too far for comfort and he hissed out his pain. They didn't stop though. He was lifted off his feet, dangling from the chain, and immediately his muscles tensed, trying to hold him in a stable position and ease the strain on his shoulders. They left him suspended, the chain between his ankle shackles and the solid weight stretched to its limit.

Inquisitor Herondale was reading out the names of the shadowhunters who had died in the Uprising. The way she was switching topics he had serious difficulties following her. Especially since he had to focus on keeping his body steady and tensed in the current position so as not to injure his shoulders. She was urging him to confess again, although he wasn't quite sure which part of his supposed crimes she was talking about at that moment, and when he remained silent, the two guards started pulling on the chain once more. He desperately flexed his muscles, trying to counter the pull, but between the heavy metal weight on his ankles and the two grown, well-muscled men on the other end of the chain he stood no chance. His arms were wrenched up and he screamed. The Inquisitor was shouting accusations at him now, demanding he own up to his actions, and the guards kept pulling.

There was a cracking sound and then excruciating pain as Hodge's elbows suddenly bent in ways they weren't supposed to. He lost control of his muscles and sagged in his restraints, hanging limply from his wrists. His scream rose in pitch and turned into a wail, then cut off abruptly when he lost consciousness. A splash of very cold water brought him around again, gasping in pain. They hadn't lowered him down and his dislocated elbows were shooting pain through his arms. But the guards wouldn't let up. They pulled at the chain, putting their backs into it. Hodge screamed as the chain tugged at his ruined elbows. He could hear his shoulders pop a split-second before he felt the agony. He saw dark spots, then blackness.

Another bucket-full of ice water hit his face, rousing him. Tears were mixing in with the water and his voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming he'd done. Sobs were shaking his body. Hodge could see the Inquisitor's lips moving, but he couldn't hear her through the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. He had no words to describe the sound that was torn from his throat when the guards let him drop a few inches and suddenly pulled him up again. The jolt made violent pain flare up all through his body. But the sound was cut short, when the pain knocked him out again.

That didn't keep his torturers from repeating the move though, once they had woken him up with ice cold water again. He lost count of the times they splashed a bucket of cold water on him, hauled him up a few inches and let him drop, agony exploding through muscles and joints already screaming from pain, ripping inhuman noises from his raw throat, right up until everything went black again.

*

When Hodge drifted back to consciousness, he wasn't quite sure where he was. It wasn't the torture room, or the room where they'd wash him, or his cell. There was daylight filtering in through a curtained window, and the room was small but clean. He was on a bed, complete with pillow and sheets. And a Silent Brother was standing next to the bed, 'looking' down at him. That was weird.

His mind felt as if it was filled with cotton, and dimly he registered pain throughout his body. It took him several minutes to remember why he would be in pain. Now it made sense that a Silent Brother was with him. Those injuries were beyond simple healing runes. Which also meant he wouldn't bounce back from them in a matter of hours. When his mind made the connection that 'too injured to think straight' most likely also meant 'too injured to be tortured for information again' he couldn't help but giggle hysterically.

The face of Inquisitor Herondale showing up above him shut him up quickly. Distantly, he wondered what kind of medication that Silent Brother had him under. He'd best keep his mouth shut until he was back in his cell. Who knew what would come out in his present state! With that resolve firmly in his mind, he drifted off again.

*

The next time Hodge woke up – as far as he could remember – he was back in his cell on his narrow cot, covered by the worn blanket. His head was clear and the pain from the last bout of torture was all but gone. They also had to have activated his Nourishment rune while he was out for he felt neither hunger nor thirst. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

His mind was already going through the information and revelations his last visit to the torture room had yielded. He needed to make sense of them before another round of torture kept his brain so busy dealing with pain that he couldn't think straight anymore.

It was a fact that the Inquisitor hadn't just thrown accusations at him. She had read out detailed witness statements, complete with names, dates and places. He'd recognized some of the names from planning sessions. So it wasn't all fiction. And since all accounts spoke of similar acts of cruelty, he now doubted his fellow Circle members had made them up. No, the most plausible explanation was that _they_ had actually committed those crimes and were now looking to lay the blame elsewhere. _On him._

Another fact was that Valentine had actually been part of some of those raids. So he had to have known of those crimes. No, he corrected himself. Not just known. No Circle member would ever have openly disobeyed Valentine. If those atrocities happened while Valentine was present, then they happened on Valentine's orders. That realization hurt. Valentine had taken him in when nobody else had wanted anything to do with him. He had taught him so many things, called him his friend, his most trusted soldier. Hodge had _believed_ in Valentine's cause!

But Valentine had become more ruthless after his father's death. Hadn't Hodge himself helped him do things he never would have considered possible before that event? With what he'd already known about his idol and what he had learnt now in these torture sessions, was it really so hard to believe that Valentine had taken the easy way out once he realized he couldn't win? He knew the punishment for killing another Nephilim just as well as any of them. And destroying the Mortal Cup may have been a way for him to gain a victory over the Clave: if he can't have the Cup, nobody will.

That he had decided to take his family with him to the grave still shocked Hodge. And the fact that Inquisitor Herondale had only ever spoken of _one_ dead child frightened him. Where was the other boy? Who was taking care of him? Who would look after him? He wished he were free so he could go looking for the boy himself. It didn't seem like Valentine to leave the boy on his own, helpless, destined to die. But did he really know Valentine? Before the Uprising, he wouldn't have believed anyone if they'd told him Valentine would flee from battle…

He was afraid he also understood the Inquisitor now. She was never going to offer him a trial by Soul Sword. He was going to be her scapegoat, she was going to make an example of him. Quite a few Circle members had escaped, and those they had actually captured came from rich, powerful families. They had friends in high places. Friends and allies who would never let them be punished suitably for all those crimes. And then there was _him_. Born into a poor and unimportant family, shunned by his peers until Valentine came along, no great deeds to his name. Nobody would care if he bore the brunt of the blame. Nobody would speak up for him.

In the beginning, she might have worried that he'd insist on a trial by Soul Sword. Which wasn't going to happen. He had too much to lose. Some of her accusations against him were true, and then there were the things she must never know about. And by now, she most certainly had realized that he had reasons not to want the Soul Sword anywhere near himself. He doubted she would risk forcing a trial by Soul Sword on him. While she probably concluded that he had secrets that could get him punished, she couldn't be sure that those secrets warranted as severe a punishment as the crimes he was accused of now. And she had to know there was a risk some of her witnesses had lied to her to save their own skin. She couldn't punish them as harshly as she obviously wanted to, and if it turned out he hadn't committed all of those crimes _and_ his own secrets weren't as damning as those witness statements, she wouldn't get to punish anyone to her heart's desire.

Unfortunately for him, there was no chance she would let him go. Even holding out under torture wouldn't convince her of his innocence. And since she seemed to have a Silent Brother at her beck and call, she could go on torturing him for as long as she liked. Nobody would care. He was pretty much out of options.

*

This time, when the guards entered his cell, Hodge was sitting on his cot, waiting for them. "Torture time again?" he asked politely and got up. If they were surprised by his change in attitude, they didn't show it. One of them activated his Nourishment rune, and then they marched him up to the torture room, where the Inquisitor was already waiting behind her desk. Today, the small side table was back next to the chair, and he could see the thumbscrew on top. Lovely.

The guards pushed him into the chair and put the restraints on him. Hodge calmly went along, then sought eye-contact to the Inquisitor. "Well, boy, I must say you look rested. Are you going to confess, or do we need to motivate you some more?"

He raised his eyebrows. "So you can finally sentence me to death and be done with it? I don't see the gain in that. While I'm alive I could still get out of here." It was extremely unlikely, but he really didn't want to die yet. He needed to get out of here to make sure the second boy was alright.

A look of surprise crossed Inquisitor Herondale's face. "Negotiating now, are we?"

Hodge swore he could see different emotions warring in her eyes. She probably was weighing her chances of driving him to confession through torturing him. He sincerely hoped he'd held out long enough for her to doubt her chances of succeeding. Right now, he wasn't too sure he could stomach much more torture. Just the sight of the thumbscrew had sent his stomach plummeting and made him sweat.

"So, you don't want to die?" He assumed that question was purely rhetorical in nature. "Then I'll make you an offer: we write out your confession of all your crimes here and now and you sign it right away. Then you tell me everything you know about the fugitives. You go to trial as quickly as possible, you confirm that your confession contains nothing but the truth and you will accept your sentence without a word of protest. In return, I promise you that you will be allowed to live and stay a shadowhunter."

He knew he'd gone pale. There were still quite a few means of punishment on the table. But he was afraid he wasn't going to get a better deal out of her. He'd just have to hope that she'd told the truth when she said that Valentine was dead. Because if he wasn't and if he ever found out about Hodge breaking his oath like this, then he would make all those hours in the torture room seem like happy little vacations. It would be hard enough to evade the Circle members still on the run if they ever found out he gave the Inquisitor any information about them.

Hodge swallowed. "Then we have a deal. Tell them to take those restraints off." He twisted his arms slightly to emphasize his point.

The Inquisitor just smiled. "They stay on until it is time for your signature. Just in case you are tempted to change your mind halfway through." She aimed a meaningful look at the thumbscrew.

Hodge shuddered involuntarily.

The Inquisitor just took a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and started writing, speaking along – presumably for his benefit. "I, Hodge Starkweather, born…"

*

Hodge lay on his cot, tears streaming from his eyes. He'd signed. In the beginning, he'd tried to negotiate about the content of his confession, but she'd just nodded at the guards and two broken fingers later he'd let her write up a long list of crimes, everything she could think of apparently, and he'd just signed. Worn down by the torture, hurt by the betrayal committed by those he had thought to be friends, or at least allies, and devastated by the way Valentine, his idol, had failed the cause - and the Nephilim - , and cowed by the thumbscrew waiting on the side table for him to show any sign of further resistance he'd given up and just agreed to anything Inquisitor Herondale had asked. And then he'd told her everything he knew about the fugitives hunted by the Clave.

His trial would be in the morning. It would be short, considering his very detailed confession. But the Inquisitor had promised him that he would be allowed to keep his life, even stay a shadowhunter. He would just have to pay the price for his crimes. It could have been a joke if it hadn't been the sad, terrible truth. They were going to make him pay the price, for the rest of his life, for crimes that he hadn't even committed, while the actual perpetrators were going to get a much more lenient sentence. Because they had influential friends. Because their family was rich and powerful. Because they had a family. And he had none of those things.

At least the Council would see exactly how Inquisitor Herondale treated her prisoners. How much 'respect' she showed them. His hair was filthy, greasy and matted. His face was covered in stubble that was long enough to be called a beard. And his body hadn't had any contact with soap since before the Uprising. The pure water they'd used to scrub him clean the first day and to wake him during torture or to wash some blood off his skin hadn't been enough to really clean him up. He was dirty and he reeked.

There were also quite a few bruises on him. He assumed they were going to give him some clothes when they dragged him off to his trial tomorrow, so not all the bruises would be visible. But it should be enough to have the Council members see how exactly Inquisitor Herondale had gotten a confession from him. It was a small, very small consolation.

*

They roused him before dawn, hauling him up and out of his cell. The room they marched him to was unfamiliar. It looked like a small walk-in wardrobe connected to a bathroom complete with a big tub. He didn't have time to really understand what it meant before they were pushing him down on a stool in the bathroom. The mirror in front of him showed him exactly what the days of torture had done to him, and he couldn't suppress a gasp of shock.

One guard held him immobile while the other started to shave his face. "Hold still. Can't have you looking unkempt now, can we?"

That hadn't been a priority before. He wanted to protest, tell them he could do this for himself, but he was worried that trying to speak would cause the blade to cut into his skin. Why were they doing this now? And then it hit him: the Council would _not_ see how he had been treated. He would be clean-shaven and probably washed and wearing decent clothes. They were trying to make any proof of their treatment of him disappear!

Hodge started to fight then. They couldn't do this! After the confession he signed the other day, showing the Council the circumstances under which the document came to be was his only chance of influencing the Council members, of causing them to feel some sympathy or pity for him. His only chance for a bearable sentence. He had to make the guards stop!

But there were two of them and only one of him and it didn't take them very long to take him down, immobilize him despite his thrashing. Then they called in two more guards who bound his hands and feet. The next half hour or so seemed like a very vivid nightmare to Hodge, one that would stay with him for a long time.

One of the men pressed his fingers into the joints of Hodge's jaw to force him to open his mouth so that another guard could shove a toothbrush in and start brushing his teeth. There was nothing tender about the movements, and Hodge could taste copper in addition to the strong minty toothpaste. They made him rinse his mouth, then carried him over to the tub and lowered him in. First, they used some herbal shampoo to scrub his filthy matted hair clean. Then they rubbed a wet cloth over his face and neck. He was immediately reminded of the towel they'd used to almost drown him again and again. He began to struggle against his restraints, his breathing growing ragged and his heartbeat speeding up. They had to _stop_! He couldn't face that again!

The guards simply used their superior strength and numbers to hold him down and finish cleaning his face despite his attempts to fight them off. Next, they washed him neck to toes with some fruity body wash, only undoing any of his bindings when necessary. He felt the guards' hands in places no one but himself had any business touching and he couldn't do a thing against it. They actually seemed amused by the way he was thrashing and writhing despite being bound, trying to get away and failing.

They removed him from the tub and rubbed him dry. Then, two of them took out their steles and started drawing healing runes over any injuries that were still visible. They were very thorough, making sure they didn't miss any. Hodge had stopped fighting by then. He let them carry him through to the wardrobe and didn't protest or struggle as they dressed him in clothes of finer quality than he had ever owned. He could see himself in the full-body mirror and he looked healthy, but somber. Well-groomed. There was no trace of torture visible anymore, no hint of neglect.

They had erased all those signs. The Council would see a well-dressed, healthy young shadowhunter who had confessed to betraying the Clave, torturing and murdering Downworlders, and slaughtering fellow shadowhunters during the Uprising. And they would punish him with the full harshness of the Law. The Inquisitor had won. Hodge's eyes were burning, but he managed to keep his tears back. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Never again!


End file.
